Cornelia Veenendaal Stiff broom scrapes concrete — it must be my friend working beyond the fence and trees where I can't see her elbow a piston, gloved hand on the bottom of the broom handle shoving a mass of dry leaves to bundle in bags before dark. All day the leaves have whispered out of high branches falling free opening blue windows. Now the horizontal sun blazes the still-yellow trees and tomorrow will be Indian summer. Broom scrapes on, shot through with the voice of a squirrel, the rough edge of his tongue for the cat who comes and goes without a sound. Broom stops. Squirrel highwires home. It is so still I hear a cardinal hop. © Cornelia Veenendaal, 2000. Used with the permission of the author.

Back to Frigatezine Home Page

Click here for public-service announcements.